


Purge

by silverr



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Companionable Snark, Epiphanies, Faction Hostility, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mists of Pandaria, Self-Reflection, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-08 16:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11650032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverr/pseuds/silverr
Summary: The eruption of inter-faction violence in Dalaran after the theft of the Divine Bell separates Asric and Jadaar, forcing them to re-evaluate their friendship.





	1. Jadaar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mipeltaja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mipeltaja/gifts).



> I am once again using 'Redmourn' as Asric's fanonical surname.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friend's attempt to provide a romantic dinner for Asric and Jadaar doesn't go as planned.

.

.

"Well, this is… unexpected," Asric said. He hurried to the door and twisted the handle. "I can't believe she locked us in!" He was indignant.

"Why?" Jadaar asked. "Vamira is a forthright person. It is entirely like her to do such a thing."

"While she was at it, why didn't she just strip us naked and cover us with oil?!" Asric said, throwing his hands up in exclamation.

Jadaar folded his arms. "Such a thing would interest you?"

"I… what?" Looking shocked, Asric turned back to the door handle and gave it a second, more desperate rattle. "It's … I hate not having an escape route." He leaned his forehead against the door. His shoulders slumped. "Stupid door. If only I had my lockpicks."

Jadaar pointed to the shuttered window. "You could jump. It's only three or four stories down."

...

When Jadaar had received Vamira's invitation to dinner in her Dalaran studio he'd assumed the evening would be another of her crowded monthly soirees, enjoyable events that were as much about playing cards and drinking ale and telling tall tales as they were about viewing the dwarven artist's latest creations.

However, when he arrived he found the studio had been transformed.

The air, which usually reeked of solvents and charcoal smoke, was pleasantly scented. The thicket of easels and small couches that usually crowded the room had been pushed against the walls and covered with swathes of iridescent fabric; in their place, a small round table, lit by a half-dozen oil lamps and set for two, had been placed next to a low, wide bed.

Jadaar, not seeing any other guests, had for a moment been concerned that Vamira intended to seduce him, but a moment later Asric had arrived. Taking in the change of decor with a crooked half-grin, the elf had asked, "What's all this?"

Vamira had explained that, as much as she loved them both and was always willing to provide a sympathetic ear, she had had her fill of listening to them complain about each other. She hadn't put it quite that way, of course: in typical blunt dwarven fashion, she had said, "I'm tired a' the grumbling. Jump over the awkward and have at each other already!"

When Asric had laughed nervously, Vamira had folded her arms and asked, "Ye think I'm kidding?" The blue tattoos on her biceps, gryphons with outstretched talons, had looked ready to pounce.

"He can see you're not," Jadaar had said. He wasn't so much taken aback by Vamira's extreme tactic as by her stated reason for it.

Vamira had given him a sideways look, then said to Asric, "Alright then. I'll be back in the mornin'. _Late_ mornin'. Noon. Enjoy yerselves."

And then she had left, and Asric had thrown his tantrum. "What did you say to her?" he demanded.

"What I always say when your name comes up," Jadaar replied. "That you are vain and capricious and utterly lacking an ethical core."

Asric scoffed.

"The more interesting question is what _you_ have been telling her," Jadaar continued mildly. "She wouldn't have taken such care to set up what is clearly meant to be a romantic evening culminating in physical intimacy unless she expected her efforts to be successful."

"She's, she's—" Asric waved his hands. "She's an artist! They always over-dramatize things!"

Jadaar considered this to be an evasive answer. "So she came to the wrong conclusion?"

"Yes!"

"I think it more likely that she was misled," Jadaar said. "It certainly wouldn't be the first time your tendency to toy with an audience has led to misunderstandings and chaos." He was becoming annoyed on Vamira's behalf. "Have you forgotten that incident with the Taunka chieftain's daughters? Or the dragon poachers in Winterspring?"

"That was completely diff—"

"Will you never learn that, more often than not, your mischief turns around and bites you? Not to mention everyone around you?"

"Then maybe you shouldn't stay around me!" Asric shouted.

Jadaar sighed, went to the table. He lifted the lid of one of the covered dishes. Goldencake, Asric's favorite dessert. Under another lid was a bowl of talbuk stew, fragrant with herbs Jadaar hadn't smelled in years.  "Eat," he told Asric. "Vamira went through great effort to provide this food. It would be rude to leave it untouched."

"I don't need you to tell me what's rude!"

"True," Jadaar said, breaking off a piece of honeyed cornbread. "You are a master of ill manners."  When Asric had no reply Jadaar looked back over his shoulder. The elf was now huddled on the floor next to the door, his arms around his knees. It would not have been possible for him to look more unhappy.

"Refusing food will not make the key appear." There were two bottles of alcohol—a pale ale and a bottle of spring wine—but fortunately there was also a carafe of water. Jadaar put down his plate, poured himself some water, then sat and began to eat.

"You sulk your way, I'll sulk mine," Asric said. He was watching Jadaar with a wary, resentful expression.

"I am not sulking," Jadaar replied. As soon as he finished his stew he stood and began unbuckling his armor, placing his spaulders neatly next to the head of the bed. He then began to unfasten his leather cuirass.

"What are you doing?" Asric asked.

"Preparing to sleep." After removing everything with buckles that might tear Vamira's sheets, Jadaar took the long edge of the coverlet and carefully folded it back toward the center of the bed, twice, in order to completely uncover his half. If he'd known he'd be spending the night he would have brought hoof covers, but fortunately dwarven beds were small enough that his lower legs would protrude past the end of the mattress. He sat down, stretched out on his side, then pulled the coverlet over his upper legs and chest.

He wondered what Asric had told Vamira to make her think that he and the elf were just waiting for the right moment to fall into a passionate embrace.

**...**

Even before he opened his eye, Jadaar knew something was wrong.

Granted, it was his nature to scan for danger and brace for disaster, something Asric was constantly pointing out. Depending on the time of day and how recently the pesky elf had eaten, Asric would attribute Jadaar's caution to either cynicism or fear, but such comments had never bothered Jadaar in the slightest. Asric did not, could not, understand that remaining vigilant was more than just a habit: it was a way of life, laced through every draenei's bones and blood.

"Something's going on outside," Asric said in a low, puzzled voice. His voice came from Jadaar's right, and some distance away.

The room was dark. The oil lamps had gone out; the only light came from the tiny glowing moons and stars painted on the ceiling. Jadaar turned his head; there was a dark gray blur near the windows. "What is it?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," Asric said. "With the streetlights dimmed I can't tell what's going on. I think I heard an explosion. Might have been at the bank. I can smell smoke, but I don't see anything burning. A lot of movement around the Citadel."

"Late-night Kirin Tor meeting?"

"Not this late," Asric replied. "They never meet this late. And they generally don't blow up the bank."

It was interesting that Asric was speaking with such confidence about the Kirin Tor's schedule; Jadaar had the impression that he'd alienated all his mage friends. "I will look," Jadaar said, folding back the coverlet. "My night vision is superior to yours." The pillow on the other half of the bed was untouched, smooth and plump. Hadn't the stubborn elf slept at all?

As Jadaar stepped up to the shuttered window, Asric hurriedly backed away, knocking over one of Vamira's easels.

Jadaar was irritated that Asric was making such a fuss. Yes, the situation was somewhat awkward, but the two of them had shared lodgings intermittently for the past ten years. They'd huddled under the same blanket in Northrend, shared a sand-nest at the Faire, spent several nights spooned in a hammock on a cargo ship during their trip to Pandaria… they had even crept through an ice cave together, naked except for a coating of boar's blood! All that, yet now Asric suddenly could not bring himself to sleep next to him, or even stand near him? Granted, all their prior physical closeness had been motivated either by a need to survive or to economize, but still, the elf's reaction was all out of proportion.

"What do you see?" Asric asked.

Jadaar lifted a slat and observed the street below in silence for several minutes. "Silver Covenant soldiers," he said quietly. "They are stopping and questioning everyone. Those who resist or run are being taken away."

"Someone important must have been murdered," Asric muttered.

Before Jadaar could ask what he meant, there was the sound of a key in the lock.

Vamira. She rushed in and quickly shut the door. "You're awake? Good. Close the shutters. An' pull the drapes."

As soon as Jadaar had done so, Vamira relit one of the lamps on the table. Taking note of the half-used bed and the barely-eaten food, she pursed her lips in disapproval as she bent to rummage through a large chest. "We have to get Asric out of Dalaran. Now."

"Why? What did he do?" Jadaar asked, ignoring Asric's affronted gasp.

"What's going on?"

"I've only heard bits," Vamira said, closing the chest she had been searching and opening another.  "Sunreavers are disappearin' like snow on a firelord's ass."

"Disappearing?" Asric asked. "I guess Vereesa finally made her move. She's been after us ever since Theramore. I wonder what finally set her off?"

"No doubt something your new Warchief did," Jadaar said.

"He's not _my_ Warchief!"

"Aye, the Theramore business was bad enough, but if he's gone so far as to kill Prince Wrynn—"

"Varian's son is dead?" Jadaar asked. A terrible loss; Anduin had been a great voice of peace and understanding.

"Rumored," Vamira said, "though Proudmoore's actin' as if it's fact. Said the Kirin Tor's done with neutrality. She's tossin' the Horde out of Dalaran."

"She can't do that!"

"Of course she can," Vamira said, hurrying across the room to search a third chest. "Problem is, some of the Covies decided this gives 'em leave ta act like hoodlums. Confiscatin' property, bendin' arms on anyone who says boo."

Jadaar nodded. "I saw them interrogating citizens."

"Filling the Hold with whomever they don't like. Guilty, innocent, doesn't matter." She pulled a gnomish-style leather bomber cap from the chest and tossed it to Asric. "This should be big enough."

"Big enough for what?"

"Yer ears. Won't do much for eyes, but I have some ideas on that."

"You're going to disguise me and try to smuggle me out of the city?" Asric said. "Why don't I just hide here?"

"I'm friends with Uda the Beast," she said, closing the chest and upending a tall battered bucket of paint-stained rags. "Just because door-ta-door hasn't banged here yet doesn't mean they aren't coming. And then what'll ye do? Cover yerself in gold paint and pretend to be a statue?"

"He wouldn't be able to stand still or stay quiet long enough to fool anyone," Jadaar said. "Do you intent to pass him off as a high elf?"

"Better ta pass him off as no-elf," Vamira said, choosing a yellowish rag with rust-colored splotches and setting the rest aside. "Make him look like a human with head injuries. Hurry now, put your armor on him while I fabricate some trauma bandages."

Asric shook his head. "I'm not going to—"

"Redmourn, ye can take your chances dodging Covies if you'd rather," Vamira said brusquely,  "but ye better have a stomach for rotting in the Hold." She began to tear the rag into wide strips.

"Fine. Do whatever you want to me."

Vamira grinned. "Och, be careful what you offer, sweetness. Someone might take you up on that." She winked at Jadaar, who was lowering his cuirass over Asric's head.

"It's much too large," Jadaar said, pushing on the chestpiece to demonstrate. "It won't fool anyone."

"Buckle up the sides as tight as ya can," Vamira ordered, "and put the shoulders on. Once we drop a robe over it no one'll guess there's more air than meat and bone inside."

"Hot air," Jadaar murmured.

"Your specialty, not mine," Asric hissed back. "Shouldn't you be out on the streets, bossing people around?"

Vamira handed Asric a small, clean knife. "Cut up yer hand or arm a bit. I need some blood to make the bandages convincing."

...

Jadaar had been skeptical, but Vamira had known what she was doing. Once Asric put on a hooded robe, he did indeed look almost as though he were a short human… from the shoulders down.

"This next part's not going ta be fun," Vamira said. "No getting round it, though."

"I'm ready." Asric squared his shoulders, then wrinkled his nose.

"Fold yer ears down across the top of yer head, and hold 'em there while we put this cap on."

"Fold?" Asric paled and winced and made small unhappy noises during this process.

"Does it hurt?" Jadaar asked, indulging in a tiny barb.

"What do you think?" Asric growled between clenched teeth. "Try bending your tail up against your back!"

"Well, fer what it's worth," Vamira said, "the constipated expression you've got is a bonus. They'll really believe that yer injured and in pain."

"I _am_ in pain!"

Vamira fastened the bomber cap's strap tightly under Asric's chin and said confidently, "Looks a bit lumpy, but the robe's hood'll hide it. An' now the final touch." She wrapped the yellowish "bandages"—smeared with streaks of Asric's blood—across the elf's eyes, eyebrows, and forehead. The effect was quite realistic, and also concealed his elvishness entirely.

"Alright then," Vamira said. "My turn." She went to the corner of her studio and, to Jadaar's astonishment, punched a rough block of stone until her knuckles were bloodied. "Needs to look like I've been fightin' too." She wiped the backs of her hands across her forehead and tunic, leaving bloody streaks.

"What now?" Asric asked.

"Assuming you can pass for Alliance," she said, "we'll take the Gate down to the Stand, then pretend to head toward Windrunner Overlook. Once we're out of sight, you can circle around to the Sunreaver base and make your way to friendlier territory from there."

Jadaar clenched his fist. Under the circumstances, it was the best course of action that could be devised on such short notice—but even so, too many things could go wrong. Asric's disguise could fail, the teleportation room could be closed or occupied by enemy forces, the Sunreaver base could be overrun by Alliance forces by the time Asric arrived…

"We have to make a stop on the way," Asric said

"A stop? Are ye daft?"

"There is… something I need to get from my room before we leave."

"Is it worth your life?" Jadaar asked.

Asric turned his bandaged head in Jadaar's direction. "Yes."

"Where is the room?" Vamira asked. "If it's in the Sunreaver—"

"No," Asric said. "It's not. It's above a shop."

Jadaar frowned. When in Dalaran, he and Asric had always met either in the Legerdemain or the Cantrips and Crows, so he had assumed that Asric had a free room within the Sunreaver Sanctuary, and couldn't recall the elf ever saying anything to contradict this. It was strange that Asric would pass up a free room to lodge elsewhere, unless…

Vamira shook her head. "We can't risk it. Covies might have already ransacked it… and even if they haven't, if they catch us there yer disguise might not hold up ta scrutiny in close quarters." She took Asric's arm. "Ye'll have ta leave it."

"Tell me what and where," Jadaar said. "I'll keep it safe for you." It was a foolish thing to offer.

Vamira snorted. "Going to wander outside in yer skivvies, are ya? Redmourn's wearing all yer armor."

"Don't concern yourself with that," Jadaar said. "Concentrate on getting out of the city." He handed one of his maces to her. "Just in case."

She hefted it and gave a small trial swing. "Good idea."

Asric sighed. "Above the weapon shop," he said reluctantly. "Small iron box next to the bed. There's an envelope under a false bottom."

"Weapon shop, iron box," Jadaar said. "Simple enough."

"I don't have the key with me," Asric said. "You'll have to break the lock. But don't use my good daggers. You can—"

"I can manage, thank you," Jadaar said.

"What if you get caught?" Asric said. "They'll recognize you as someone who's fraternized with the enemy." He was trying very hard to sound nonchalant.

"I will not be recognized," Jadaar said. "I will go disguised. Undercover."

"I'm sure it'll be very convincing. No one will notice a one-eyed blue planet lurking in my room."

"Enough flirty talk," Vamira said as she started to lead Asric toward the door. "Let's go, mousie. Before the silver kitties sniff you out."

"Don't be reckless," Jadaar said. "You'll get Vamira killed."

"Try not to bleed on my stuff," Asric said. "It's valuable."

...

There were two approaches to undercover work. The most common was to escape notice by being as unobtrusive as possible in both appearance and action, so that no one would give a first look, let alone a second. The other was to be so visible, so intimidating, that discomfited onlookers would choose to avoid looking at you for fear they'd make eye contact.

Jadaar knew that Asric had made a valid point. Even on a normal day draenei hardly faded into the background in Dalaran—and more importantly, today most law-abiding draenei were probably staying off the streets behind locked doors inside the Silver Enclave—he needed to go with the second approach.

Unfortunately, disguising Asric had taken most of his armor.

He looked around Vamira's studio. Her artist's smocks and overalls were, of course, far too small for him, but the row of what she had referred to once as "guest robes" hanging on pegs were generously sized. They were far too garishly patterned for his taste, not at all the sort of thing he would ever choose to wear… but then again, if glowering and looming wasn't an option, perhaps being as outrageous as possible would work? Being outfitted in a way utterly opposed to his usual self should make him less likely to be recognized.

He took one of the robes down. Red silk accented with gold thread, It was the sort of thing he could imagine a sensualist like Asric wearing. Asric wouldn't care that the silky fabric was too thin to be practical; all he would care about was how it felt on his skin, how it clung to his body…

Jadaar clutched the robe and pressed it to his cheek as a wave of affection and worry washed over him. _Don't die, brat._

He shook himself. It was fitting: Asric had crept forth as a blinded defender, and now Jadaar was preparing to stride through the streets dressed as an amoral, overly dramatic criminal.

Jadaar set aside the red robe and took a more garishly floral turquoise one. At first he put it on as a jacket, but, feeling that the effect was too sedate, he took it off and tied the arms around his waist, adjusting the fabric to hang down in front like a modesty cloth. Better, but still too… conservative. He slid the knot over one hip, then tied on the red robe on the opposite side, so that the robes overlapped in front and back. Jadaar considered himself in the mirror for a moment. "Much better, although now hardly modest," he pronounced, and then got an idea. He'd noticed how often Asric had glanced speculatively at his crotch before the ice cave had revealed all; perhaps the Silver Covenant elves would be as curious? "So let's give them something extra to look at," he muttered, taking a large, clean rag and folding it into a thick pad. Positioning it inside the front of his leggings, he nodded. It wasn't a tactic that would have worked on a draenei, of course, but he felt confident that the high elves would either look away or be unable to look at anything else. Next, thinking to cover his eye-patch—it was a distinctive feature—he eyed Vamira's collection of feathery hats, but decided against it. Trying to disguise the eyepatch would only call attention to it. He passed on an bristling orcish armband, but donned a slightly more sedate trollish necklace of raptor teeth and feathers. As as final touch, he unbraided his hair and shook it free around his shoulders.

He looked ridiculous, which was perfect.

After one more quick survey of the studio for anything useful, he took one of the long, thin Pandaren hair ornaments he saw in vase of paintbrushes to use as a lock-pick. Tucking it into his greaves, he hid Asric's daggers at the bottom of Vamira's rag-bucket, then slung his remaining mace across his back, picked up the unopened bottle of springwine, blew out the oil lamp, and sallied forth.

...

The predawn streets were in chaos. People carrying bundles were running toward Krasus' Landing; others stood at street corners, paralyzed with panic. A few vendor stands were on fire, and everywhere he looked, Sunreavers and Silver Covenant forces were fighting. It was difficult to curb his instinctive urge to help.

He hurried to the weapon shop. The door had been broken down, but no one was inside. One of the display cases had been smashed and its contents stolen. There were fairly fresh bloodstains on the floor.

Upstairs, most of the crates and weapons lockers along the mezzanine had been broken into as well. Jadaar climbed the last stairs to the top level. There were four decorative wall panels along the side of the building that faced the street; as he moved past the first one, he caught a glint of light. He pressed on the panel, and with a click a hidden mechanism opened the panel outward like a door.

The room behind the panel was narrow—he could have touched both side walls simultaneously without stretching out his arms fully—and stiflingly hot. The space, lit by a small glow-light, was stacked shoulder-high and wall to wall with dusty storage crates.

Behind the second panel were more crates; behind the third was a dusty pile of broken, rusted weapons.

The space behind the fourth and last panel he took to be Asric's room, for there was a small iron box at the foot of the narrow bed that took up nearly all the floor space. He set the bottle of wine down on the bed—the only furniture in the tiny room—then bent to pick up the box. It was unexpectedly light, as if empty, but when he gently shook it, there was the sound of contents shifting.

It took some time to pick the lock—ten times as long as Asric would have taken, of course—but at last it sprung. The box contained various currencies, assorted tarnished rings, a worn velvet bag containing pieces of a broken necklace, crusted vials of dubious liquids, and a well-used professional lock-picking kit of mithril. Jadaar upended the box onto the bed, then pried up the box's false bottom to reveal a small courier's packet of grimy leather. From the feel of it, it contained something in addition to documents.

Without thinking, he began to open it, then stopped himself. Anything that Asric had been willing to risk his life for—and had hidden so well—had to be something very important. If this had been a retrieval errand for a client, Jadaar would never have been tempted to look inside the packet. He would have considered it a violation of privacy. Then again, if he had been sent to investigate the rooms of any other person with Asric's shady and unsavory background, he would have opened the packet at once, assuming that it contained evidence of criminal activity.

Torn, Jadaar held the packet more tightly, hoping to discern by touch alone what it contained. The problem was, Asric was neither a client nor a suspect. While Asric had not specifically forbidden him from looking inside the packet, Jadaar had a feeling that it wasn't something he was expected to do. Or was it? was Asric playing him, knowing full well he'd look?

It was at that moment that Jadaar heard voices on the ground floor of the weapon shop. He slipped the packet into the back of his leggings as footsteps thundered up the stairs.

An instant later, three Silver Convent guards—he assumed they were Silver Covenant, as they were high elves with drawn swords—appeared in the doorway. After taking in the contents of the room and Jadaar's outlandish appearance, one said in Common, "These lodgings are registered to Asric Redmourn. Where is he?"

Jadaar, pretending not to understand, gave them his best blank stare.

"Where is the elf?" the leader asked, speaking more slowly.

Jadaar pointed to the items on the bed, then said in Common—making his draenic accent so thick he knew would be just barely comprehensible—"Mine."

One of the guards, who had been ogling, asked, "Arrest this one for looting?" 

Jadaar could tell that the leader wasn't a fool. He had taken in the mace slung across Jadaar's back as well as the many scars on the draenei's chest and arms, and seemed to have decided that even with three on one the odds might not be in his favor. "No," he said, "let him keep his worthless trophies."

"Trophy. Yes," Jadaar said, thumping his chest with his fist. "Elf trophy _mine."_

.

.

.

_~ To be continued ~_

.

.

_ first post 13 March 2017; revised and reposted 29 July 2017; rev 18 May 2018  
_


	2. Asric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asric, having escaped from Dalaran, manages to find even more dangerous surroundings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to **Bryn** for beta.

.

.

All in all, it was amazing how well it worked.

Not that he had known it was working at first. Unable to see through the fake bandages over his eyes, barely able to hear with his painfully compressed ears, all his senses brought him was the smell of smoke and sweat and Vamira's bruisingly firm grip on his arm. Now and again he could tell from her movements that she was swinging Jadaar's mace one-handed, but even that evidence of her strength wasn't enough to squelch his anxiety that the people rushing past would knock him away from her. From there, it was only a short step to imagining himself being unmasked and beaten to death, simply because suddenly he was the wrong type of elf.

Finally he thought he heard Vamira say, "Easy now, we're almost there," and then he tripped and fell upon what he hoped were the stairs to the Violet Gate room. More than one set of hands helped him up, and he stumbled into someone. An instant later he felt the familiarly unpleasant sensation of the teleport, then solid ground under his feet. There was watery, incomprehensible conversation, and then Vamira was pulling him through the Kirin Tor shield into the sharp cold air of Crystalsong.

He kept imagining that he could hear shouting behind him, shouting that was directed specifically at him. He knew that running would draw attention, would mark them as guilty or enemies or both, but even so the urge to run nearly choked him.

Vamira held his arm even tighter. Over smooth stones, down a ramp, and then on to lumpy ground that crunched underfoot. A dozen steps and his foot sank into water so cold that it burned, but Vamira was relentless. They crossed the stream into uneven ground, where branches slapped at his face and the underbrush grabbed his robe. "Planning to drag me all the way to Orgrimmar?" he grumbled.

Vamira stopped and let go. As far as Asric could tell, she said something that sounded like _Far enough,_ so he began fumbling with the chinstrap of the leather helmet until she pulled his hands away.

As she pushed back the hood of his robe and removed the rag strip wrapped around his head, Asric squeezed his eyes shut against the scaldingly bright light. When she undid the strap of the helmet and pulled it off, blood rushed into his ears, replacing numbness with stabbing red-hot needles.

He bent over and pressed his fists against his mouth to muffle his groans. Fuck the Alliance, and double-fucks to that soggy-crotched shit of a warchief who'd ruined everything. Dalaran had been working just fine before Garrosh came along.

As the pain started to subside, he cautiously opened his eyes. Blurry ruins surrounded them. Forlorn Woods, it seemed. Blinking and squinting, he could just make out the tower of Sunreaver Command in the distance. "Well, that was… exciting," he said, wiping away his tears.

"Aye, that's one word fer it." Vamira tucked the helmet under her arm, then began rolling up the fake bloody bandage. "Kin ye make it from here?"

"Yeah." He gingerly touched the base of each limp ear, wincing at the size of the blood-knots that had formed from the constricted circulation. It would take days for the swelling to go down and for his lobes to regain their posture.

"Are they broken?"

"No." He had to say something, even though it would be entirely inadequate. "Mira… what you did was amazing. Saying 'thank you' hardly covers it."

"Sure it does," she said, "an' I'd do it again in a heartbeat. I have no stomach for hooligans, no matter what colors they're wearin'." She put the rag ball into the helmet. "I'm goin' down south for a while, visit my cousins, but I'll swing through Dalaran first, let Jadaar know you're in one piece. Anything else I should tell him?"

Asric opened his mouth, and then closed it and shook his head.

"Not even someplace he should meet up wi' ye?" Her tone had more than a little wheedle.

"I'll… I'll get in touch with him." He fumbled under his robe at the latches of the cuirass. "Better take this armor back before he accuses me of stealing it."

"Would ye mind hanging on ta it for now?" Vamira asked. "I can't see any way of explainin' why I'm carryin' it that won't get me into trouble."

"Oh. Alright. Should I take the helmet too?" As Vamira handed it to him he said, "The dinner was very… it was very kind of you. The lights, the ambiance." He added, because he knew it would make her happy to hear it, "Very romantic."

"Any regrets?"

"No."

Vamira gave him one of her looks, the one that said that she was well aware of what he was about. "Well, take care of yerself."

As she turned and headed back toward the Violet Stand, Asric could almost hear Jadaar saying _He always does._

...

It was ridiculous, he thought as he started to make his way toward the Sunreaver outpost, how many people attributed success to good luck. Good planning had far more of an impact than sitting back and hoping for the best. He hated sitting back and hoping for the best. Observation, analysis, decisive action… he prided himself on these skills. Which made it doubly irritating every time Jadaar accused him of being impulsive, because clearly the oaf was mistaking instantly-improvised plans executed to perfection for panicked flailing. In fact, as grateful as he was to Vamira, Asric felt slightly envious of how quickly she'd come up with such a creative solution to the crisis in Dalaran, and slightly cheated that everything resolved itself so quickly.

Asric knew he would have come up with something If he hadn't been exhausted from spending all night trying to figure out why Jadaar had accused him of misleading Vamira. Over and over, no matter how he'd approached it, the same conclusion kept slapping him in the face. Since Jadaar himself would never mislead anyone, the dinner must have been something that Jadaar had planned with Vamira, which implied that he was interested in Asric, which meant that Asric had completely misread him, which meant that the carefully-constructed explanation of what made Jadaar tick—previously very useful in predicting what what the ex-Peacekeeper would say and do in any given situation—was wrong. Asric had believed that Jadaar was immune to sexual wiles and flirty manipulation because he simply didn't seem interested in romance or sex at all, with anyone. Including Asric. This had been an ideal situation: Jadaar's scowling disapproval added spice to the fantasies in which Asric imagined what it would be like to have a tumble with such a powerful and alien body, and also meant that there was no danger that Jadaar would actually sleep with him and thus force Asric to invoke the Redmourn Rule.

But now all that was ruined. Not just because the faction turmoil Garrosh had stirred up was making Asric flee for his life in a borrowed disguise, but because knowing that Jadaar had these feelings for him (how had he hidden them so completely?) had released a maddening swarm of gnats in his head, a stinging churn of doubts and longings and regrets that was making him feel deprived and resentful and nearly as miserable as he had been after—

He stopped walking and clutched his head. He _had_ to stop thinking about Jadaar.

The branches of the crystallized trees around him swayed and creaked in the damp, chill air, but there was no other movement or sound.

Yes. Focus on the current situation. No one was pursuing him. Good. He needed to hole up somewhere safe, as far from the Dalaran shitstorm as possible. His usual haunts were out. The Tournament had hardly been a haven even before the jousting incident, and now was likely to be as chaotic as Dalaran. K3 was close, but compared to Gadgetzan and Booty Bay, it was too small to be interesting… and who knew how long the Alliance would continue to consider goblin towns neutral anyhow? The outposts in Zul'Drak and Grizzly Hills were closest, but they might not be willing to offer protection to sin'dorei.

That just left the capital cities. Thanks to the Sunreavers, Silvermoon would be the Alliance's first target. Orgrimmar was out too, because all it would take would be one honestly-expressed opinion about Hellscream—and what else was there for an elf to do in Orgrimmar but drink?—and he'd be impaled on a spike. Thunder Bluff was appealing, but getting there would require long jaunts across well-known routes in airships that were barely functional and without defenses. Then too, there had been that misunderstanding with the Taunka chieftain. Best not to take chances.

Which left Undercity. Best guarded, and not likely he'd run into anyone there who knew or cared about him. The downside was that it was _Undercity,_ gloomy, humid, and foul-smelling. Still, the Rogue's Quarter generally had at least a few rooms available for discreet transactions, and the various escape routes to Tirisfal Glades meant that fresh air circulated more freely there than in the other Quarters. And he wouldn't be tripping over orcs everywhere he turned, which was a bonus. As long as he kept his mouth shut around the Kor'kron, he'd be fine.

So, Undercity it was. First step was to get to Vengeance Landing; once there, he could evaluate whether to risk taking a zeppelin the rest of the way.

He glimpsed a flash of red between the trees: Sunreaver's Command was just ahead.

He stopped again to think. News of the events in Dalaran must have reached the Sunreavers by now, which meant they would already have sent most or all of their forces to assist, using all their dragonhawks to bypass the Stand and get to Dalaran quickly. Then again, they might have left a token force behind with a single 'hawk. Had it been night, he could have snuck in and borrowed it, but with Crystalsong as bright as day at all hours he couldn't approach without being seen. Once they saw him they'd probably want him to join the fight; in fact, if any of the Sunreavers from the Tournament were there, they'd insist he fight. Not something he wanted to do.

So his options were to look as un-battleworthy as possible, or to hike the narrow, snowy pass that led from Crystalsong to K3.

K3 wasn't necessarily the safe option. Jadaar's oversized armor provided protection but no warmth, and though the yetis were noisy and easily dodged, it would still take hours trudging through the snow. Assuming that the Covenant's Alliance lackies hadn't taken control of the town, Asric wasn't sure he'd be able to access any of the Steamwheedle bank accounts anyhow without the various identification papers in the courier pouch in his room.

He sighed, then stepped off the path toward a snowbank, considering his options. He wished he'd thought to ask Vamira if there had been Sunreavers fighting at the Stand. She hadn't had to fight anyone, which might mean that no one had paid them much attention—and even if someone did recognize the greenish-brownish-gray sack as having been on a "human", they were more likely to think that Asric had looted it from a corpse than to pronounce him a Traitor to the Horde.

Jadaar's armor had to go, though.

It struck him, as he was shoving the leather-and chain chestpiece into the snowbank, that, aside from a few generals, Jadaar was the only person he had ever known who always wore armor to social events.

Next, Asric stripped off his shirt, trousers, and boots, and stuffed then inside the chest cavity. Being barefoot in the snow wearing only a thin robe would add authenticity to his pathetic refugee look. As he put Vamira's helmet inside the cuirass, the ball of 'bandages' gave him an idea. He tore off an especially stained section, wrapped it around his sword hand, then rubbed his knuckles bloody on the edge of Jadaar's armor. Satisfied with the effect, he wedged the spaulders in on top of the helmet, camouflaged the cache with branches and snow, and then turned, shivering, toward the Sunreaver outpost.

...

"Commander! Another one!" a sentry shouted.

Two elves in Sunreaver tabards ran down the path. The one who'd been addressed as Commander stopped before she reached him. "What did those animals do to him?"

The second elf, wincing, put an arm around Asric.

Asric leaned on him gratefully: his bare feet were so numb he was finding it difficult to keep his balance. "They knocked me around a little," he said, hoping he sounded like someone trying to be brave, and held up his hand. "But give me a sword, and I'll do what I can to repay them."

"You're in no shape to fight," a third Sunreaver said sternly.

"Let me at least go for reinforcements," Asric said, throwing in a weak cough for extra effect.

"We've already sent word to Silvermoon and the tourney." The elf helping Asric was talking to the center of his chest, apparently to avoid looking at his ears.

"What about Vengeance Landing?"

The commander shook her head. "We sent word, but I don't intend to rely on our allies in Undercity—"

"This won't end in a day," Asric said, feeling suddenly fervent. "We have to keep fighting! Dalaran's too strategic a location for us to give up!"

The commander eyed him. "Yes, we are well aware of that." She addressed the elf helping Asric. "Get him some boots, then take him to the portal."

"Silvermoon," the helper said. "Don't worry, you'll be safe there."

 _I doubt it,_ Asric thought.

...

The portal deposited him near the fountain in the Court of the Sun. To his right, a huge carved wooden frame three times the height of an elf supported an ornately-decorated spiked metal cylinder; whatever the massive structure was, it was surrounded by a half dozen tense-looking spellbreakers.

"Does it hurt?" A harried looking elf with a healer's insignia asked him.

"It's nothing," Asric said, casually moving his bandaged hand out of sight before he realized that they probably meant his ears. "Just few scratches."

He moved away from the portal into the crowd of unwounded onlookers, most of them all abuzz about Dalaran. None of them sounded as though they had actually come from there, though, so Asric kept moving, hoping to glean something new. He caught an interesting snippet as two mages walked swiftly by, something about a clash over a stolen something or other, but they were out of range before he could catch more of what they were saying. He stopped near the back of the crowd behind a pair of sleek nobles arguing about whether or not eyepatches were sexy, and was tempted to join the conversation and offer his opinion on the topic when two figures burst through the portal. One was Aethas Sunreaver; with him was a dark-haired mage in a high-collared red robe who looked like Grand Magister Rommath.

A ripple of excitement went through the crowd as a tall blond standing near the strange gateway sculpture turned and shouted, "Aethas! You're alive!"

Aethas stumbled over to the blond and knelt. "A few of us made it out of there, but many more have been sent to the Violet Hold."

Lord? Oh, right, the eyepatched blond must be Lor'themar Theron. He'd moved up in the world since his Farstriders days, it seemed, becoming—at least according to Dalaran and tournament gossip—an absolutely all-knowing all-perfect utterly dreamy hunk of a Regent Lord. He certainly wasn't dressed for his station: compared to Halduron Brightwing, whose blue armor and lighthouse spaulders were probably visible on moonless nights to ships at sea, Lor'themar's conservative black and red armor was practical and relatively modest.

"Anar'alash denal!" Lor'themar said. "Will someone tell me what is going on in Dalaran?"

"Proudmoore," Aethas replied. "She's gone and expelled the Sunreavers from the city, and vowed to purge the Horde from the Kirin Tor!"

Lor'themar's growl was audible even to Asric, and made him smile. "She's gone too far. Now the Alliance can move their war mages through the city at will. That human… _witch!"_

Lor'themar turned from Aethas, and the crowd gasped as, with one smooth movement, the Regent Lord sent one of the court's long wooden benches sailing through the air and into the fountain. "When will they learn?" he demanded of the splashing water. "When will they see that the Horde exists _because_ of the Alliance? Because of their prejudice and their bigotry! They leave us no choice but Hellscream's Horde!"

This statement shocked Asric even more than the bench-tossing had (which had been damned impressive). If Garrosh had spies in Silvermoon—and he probably did—what Lor'themar had just said was nearly treason.

Lor'themar composed himself. "Hal'duron, summon the rangers," he said. "Rommath, assemble the Blood Magi, and add the Sunreavers' strength to your own. We Sin'dorei will take our future into our own hands." He gestured at the giant sculpture. "And get this damn thing out of my sight! Hellscream bought this treasure with the blood of my people. I hope it destroys him."

As the crowd broke into scattered applause and cheers, Asric slipped away. So Theron was competent as well as charismatic?

Well, Asric didn't intend to fall for _that_ again.

...

It took longer than he'd expected to get out of Silvermoon. The bank at first refused to give him access to either his funds or the storage vault, claiming that the account had been closed due to inactivity. Once Asric began dropping names, however, the ledgers were found to be in error and a key produced.

The vault had been cleaned out, of course—it had been careless of him to leave the letters in there—but surprisingly there was more gold in the account than he remembered. He wondered briefly if it was due to generosity or guilt, but it didn't matter. He withdrew slightly more than half; no need for them to know he didn't intend to return.

He considered doing his part to support the rebuilding of the city's business district by paying three times more for appallingly unfashionable clothes than he would have paid in Dalaran, but decided against it and slipped into Murder Row instead.

...

"Digging through garbage? How appropriate."

Asric looked up from the used clothing bin. The elf glaring down at him was even more overly-muscled than Asric remembered.

"Nerisen. You've become quite skillful at padding your crotch. It almost looks natural."

The tips of Nerisen's ears turned red. "What do you want?"

"What does it look like?" Asric said. "Clothes." He sniffed a shirt. "Ugh, rude." He tossed it back, then pulled out another. "What's in this season, armpit stink or bloodstains? I'm so out of touch with the trends."

"I won't let you see Elara. Or Zel."

"I didn't plan on seeing them," Asric replied. "Was hoping to avoid them, actually." Nerisen wouldn't believe this, but it didn't matter.

"So you've found a new victim?"

Asric was tempted to tell him that he'd married a draenei, if for no other reason than to see his reaction. It seemed that he was just still as easy to bait as he'd been in the old days. "Why would I tell you?"

"Get out of here!"

"As soon as I find pants," Asric said, shucking off the robe as he stood. "I mean, I could wander the streets without any, but I prefer subtle advertisement for my ample charms." As Nerisen's eyes narrowed, Asric dug out a pair of rumpled black leather leggings from the bottom of the pile and pulled them on.

"You can't just take those clothes," Nerisen sputtered. "You've got to pay for them. They're for members in good standing. You haven't paid your dues in _years."_

 _Wrong again,_ Asric thought. "Tell you what. You look the other way, pretend you didn't see me, and I'll leave right now." He picked up a ratty black shirt that had nothing going for it other than being relatively clean and odor-free. "It'll work out, because I've already forgotten that I've seen you."

"You… you… arrogant… " Nerisen was groping for words. "Selfish… " His posture radiated fury.

"Come on, Neri, you can do better than that," Asric needled. "Surely you remember?" He ticked off the insults on his fingers. "Homeless. Friendless. Clumsy. Poor. Whore mother. Oh, and don't forget fatherless." He snatched up the robe, threw it at Nerisen's face, and darted out the door.

...

He expected to have to spend most of his gold bribing the Sunfury Spire guards for access to the Undercity translocation orb, but he walked past them without effort, and by the time his heart had stopped pounding from the fight with Nerisen he was traipsing down the cracked marble steps and into the gloomy haven beneath the ruins of Lordaeron.

...

He wasn't sure what the advantages of being one of the only elves in Undercity would be, but the disadvantage became apparent as soon as he stepped off the elevator.

He stood out.

"Lost?" A gray-jawed female Forsaken dressed in a red shirt and pants was leaning against the wall next to the elevator. A good third of her face was hidden behind oversized sunglasses.

"This is Thalassian Pass, isn't it?" Asric asked her, wondering if his wide-eyed rube face was wasted on her. "It certainly looks different than the last time I was through here."

She made a gurgling sound that he assumed was an amused chuckle.

"Or did I take a wrong turn and wind up in Orgrimmar?" he said, studying the scowling Kor'kron guarding the elevator.

"Follow me," the Forsaken said, pushing off from the wall and ambling down the corridor. "I'll show you the way."

"I know the way," Asric said as he followed her. "This hallway leads to the bank. Once I'm there I stand with my back to the bat handler, and then go a quarter circuit anti-clockwise, through the corridor to the outer ring."

"I'll just take you there." As soon as they were out of earshot of the Kor'kron she said, "You have a death wish, don't you?"

He shrugged. "So I've been told."

"Death's not all it's cracked up to be."

There was a shriek; the next thing Asric knew a sin'dorei in a slinky green dress was running toward him. She threw her arms around his neck. "Finally!"

Her body didn't feel familiar, so he tried to pull away far enough to see her face. "Do I know you?"

"Well, you're the only other elf I've seen here in days," she said. She stroked his face with a fingertip. "I think we _should_ get to know each other."

"Perhaps some other time," Asric said, pulling her arms from around his neck.

Her expression faltered, and then got ugly. "Ugh, don't tell me you're here for one of _them."_

The gray-jawed Forsaken, who had been watching this little drama unfold, said, "Well, sweetie, they don't call it boning for nothing."

With an interjection of disgust, the sin'dorei ran off.

Asric couldn't stop grinning. "Thanks, ah—sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"I didn't toss it."

Asric raised an eyebrow. "And here I thought Forsaken whimsy was a myth."

"A sense of humor takes the edge off decomposing," she said. "Rogues' Quarter, right?"

"Yes," he said, then, "Wait—how did you know that's where I was going?"

She looked him up and down. "Black shirt, leather pants? Too easy." She pointed to an archway on the level below them. "Through there."

They descended the stairs to the lower level, then went through the arch.

"Why aren't you in Silvermoon?" she said as they passed the auctioneer's station. "Do you dislike elves in general, or are you avoiding relatives?"

"Something like that." They had reached that point in the conversation where Asric either needed to offer personal details, or ask her about herself. "So what do you do?"

She did something with her mouth that he supposed was a smile; it was hard to tell when she had only one lip. "No point in asking me about myself when you're really not interested, is there?"

Asric was impressed at her elf-reading skills. "You don't know me well enough to say what I'm interested in. As a matter of fact, asking questions is what I do."

"I didn't have the stomach for pointless chit chat when I was alive," she replied, "and now I _really_ don't have the stomach for it."

Asric wasn't sure if she meant this literally or not, and shook his head. Forsaken always took some getting used to.

They started to cross one of the bridges that spanned the sulfurous green canal separating the middle and outer ring. "But I've never been able to say no to a redhead," she said suddenly, answering the question of whether or not she was blind. "And you are the prettiest thing to have crossed my path in ages." She stopped in the middle and turned to face him. "Here is probably good."

"Good for what?" Asric asked.

She reached out her hand toward his hair, pulling it back with her horrible half-smile when he leaned away. "Rebecka. And since you asked, when I'm not out digging up old bones, I do alchemical research."

"I'm not interested in being one of your experiments."

"Intriguing suggestion… but not what I had in mind. I want you to spill whatever's bothering you. There aren't any guards, and we won't be overheard by anyone unless they cross the bridge."

Why she had latched onto him he had no idea, but he had a hunch that she wouldn't leave him alone unless he told her something. He supposed the truth would do. "The Sunreavers—well, actually, all the Horde—have been thrown out of Dalaran. I barely escaped, but I have a friend who's still there. I'm worried about him."

"And he can't join you here?" she asked. When Asric didn't reply, she chuckled. "Oh, I _see._ He _can't_ join you here, can he? What a naughty, traitorous elf you are! Befriending the enemy."

"Thank you for bringing me this far," Asric said, feeling dread, as he noticed a second too late the trap that was snapping shut around him. If there were spies in Silvermoon, there were probably spies in Undercity, too. "I can take it from here."

"Alright." Unexpectedly, she leaned toward him and said in a gravelly whisper, "I know someone who has a pet that will run errands. Very obedient. Good for mailing and retrieving letters." She slid her sunglasses down what was left of her nose; her eye sockets were filled with a white mist. "Interested?"

"I—I, no, no. Thank you. No." So, that was yet another thing he'd been wrong about.

Rebecka pushed her sunglasses back up. "Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, ask for me at the Apothecarium."

...

The Rogues' Quarter accommodations were cheap, and for good reason. The "inn" was a large room of with coffins open at one end. Stacked ten high, patrons were expected to slide in head or feet first, and to trust that the guards posted to ensure that no one's sleep was disturbed would not themselves disturb anyone's sleep.

Asric paid double for the option of sleeping atop the coffin honeycomb, but started the night keeping an eye on a Darkspear who had also purchased a premium spot. It was an old enmity, elf and troll, but recent events were overshadowing that history, uniting them in their hatred of Garrosh.

The troll stared back at him, his eyes black pools in the dim light. Asric wasn't an expert on the finer points of troll body language, but this one seemed willing to leave him alone, so Asric made a show of settling down and pretending to sleep.

And then, for the second night in a row, all he could find to occupy his thoughts was Jadaar.

He hated how his feelings about the windbag had flipped from amused tolerance to anxious longing. He should have taken advantage of the opportunity and satisfied his curiosity, among other things, before Redmourn's Rule kicked in.

But now it was too late. _No attachments._ That's what the Rule demanded.

Still, wasn't he constantly bending the Rule nearly to breaking anyhow? Take Vamira. He was very fond of her, but because he very spent little time with her one-on-one, he could tell himself she was an acquaintance, not an attachment. Insulting, putting her in the same category as his goblin business contacts or the roster at Gallywix's who scratched various itches!

Jadaar, though… Jadaar was a different matter. It had crept up slowly, but there was no way to pretend that he and Jadaar were mere acquaintances. Acquaintances didn't look for flimsy excuses to spend time together. Acquaintances weren't so gleeful about thinking up new ways to annoy each other. Every time Asric could recall being truly happy since—well, since he'd defected to the Scryers—had been while he was with Jadaar. He still remembered their first trip to Pandaria. Drifting off to sleep back-to-back in a swaying hammock, Jadaar's reassuring presence pressed against him like a mountain… for the first time in years he'd felt safe, and accepted. Contented. And _happy,_ damnit.

That was the crux of it, wasn't it? The stupid, illogical crux. At the same time that he wanted that feeling, that safe, happy, contented feeling, he was afraid of once again going through the pain of losing it, and so he'd hidden behind The Rule. The Rule made it easy. It insulated him from pain by keeping everyone at a distance, but he'd come to realize, even before Jadaar came along, that it insulated him from happiness as well. Shallow relationships drove away friends and potential partners alike. Ironically, his fear of being alone had led to… being alone.

Maybe it was time for a change. Maybe it was time to discard the Rule. In the end, all it had accomplished by keeping him from settling down was to keep him from settling down with the wrong person. Only one person alive cared if Asric carried on the Desgarux family line, but as far as Asric was concerned, it was far better if it died out. So sure, why not settle down with Jadaar? He'd embrace that grumpy blue bear, and find out if there was anything that could soften up the perpetual scowl.

The only problem was that such an ending might now be impossible. A lump rose in his throat. He hugged his knees and blinked, spilling silent, ridiculous tears, and buried his face in his arm.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when something touched his foot.

It was the troll. He had moved closer, crouching an arm's-length away, and was holding out what looked like a dirty rag. He pantomimed wiping his eyes.

Asric took the rag and dabbed at his face just enough to be polite, then handed the rag back.

The troll then hesitantly pantomimed something else.

 _What the hell,_ Asric thought. _At least it'll take my mind off Jadaar._

...

Asric had never been to the Apothecarium before. He decided that once was enough. The humid, stagnant air was thick with the stink of decaying flesh, burnt hair, and the acrid tang of chemicals. The randomly-placed lights lit up far too many horrifying sights, while the sound of creaking chains was not nearly loud enough to cover the faint moans of test subjects and the frantic scrabbling of caged animals.

The two Royal Apothecary Society chemists arguing in Gutterspeak over a bubbling retort paid him no attention when he entered, but a Forsaken who seemed to be their assistant hurried over when he appeared.

"Yes?" Her voice was deeper and raspier than Rebecka's. "What can I do for you?"

"Rebecka said I could find her here?"

"Oh." She didn't so much speak the word as exhale it, with what seemed her last breath. She pointed a skeletal finger at a chair near the stairs to the upper level. "Wait there."

Asric went and sat.

The two RAS chemists, still ignoring him, finished their discussion. One went to a table and began making adjustments to a complex tangle of glass tubing that was distilling various liquids; the other disappeared out of sight down a hallway guarded by two exceptionally burly Kor'kron.

A moment later, Asric was startled to hear cursing, in fervent and exceptionally eloquent formal Thalassian.

The Kor'kron guarding the hallways watched him with beady, baleful eyes, daring him to investigate.

Though he was burning with curiosity, he let his head drop to his chest as if he were dozing off. After a few moments of this, he turned sideways, resting his arm on the back of his chair as a pillow for his head—all the better to eavesdrop on whatever was going on in the hallway.

"Now, now," he heard someone—presumably the chemist—say faintly in echoing Common. "You should know better by now! If you don't drink it, I'll get the hooks. You remember the hooks, don't you?" There was some groaning, the sound of breaking glass, a scuffling, rattling noise… and then an agonized scream that went on and on and on and chilled Asric to the bone.

A few moments later, the chemist came out of the hall and returned to his colleague. The two resumed their Gutterspeak.

Asric let several minutes go by, then yawned and made an extravagant show of stretching his arms over his head. He nodded to the assistant, then stood and began to amble around the room, pretending to examine the various apparatus. "What's this for?" he asked.

The assistant rasped, "Tincture calibration station."

He moved to another table. "And this?"

"Distillation analysis station."

At the third table he positioned himself with his back to the assistant, in such a way that he'd naturally get a clear view down the hallway as he turned to talk over his shoulder to her. "And this one?"

"Organic substrate precipitation test station."

The short hallway ended in an alcove lit by a single overhead lantern. In the alcove was a small iron cage; in the cage was a gray-skinned, white-haired elf. The elf's back was to Asric, but by the ears it wasn't kaldorei. Asric hoped that it was an Alliance high elf, because if it wasn't, it meant that the Kor'kron—and maybe the Forsaken as well, including his new friend Rebecka—considered blood elves cageable.

"Morning," Rebecka said cheerfully.

The chemists and the assistant mumbled greetings as she came over to Asric.

"Changed your mind?" she asked. She was dressed today in a high collared black tunic and black trousers that ended just above her knees, and wore heavy boots and gloves. Her greenish hair was slicked down and the sunglasses were gone, as was the mist in her empty eye sockets.

Asric decided he much preferred the sunglasses-and-mist look. "I'd like to continue our discussion from yesterday," he said quietly. "Could we take a walk?"

"This place too much for you, huh?"

Asric looked around. The elf in the cage hadn't moved. "I don't much care for the screaming."

"Eh, you'd get used to it." She said something in rapid Gutterspeak, and the two chemists nodded without looking up from their work. "Let's go." She slipped her arm through Asric's.

He tried not to flinch. "What are they doing to that elf?" he asked once they'd left the Apothecarium.

"So, this is how it works," Rebecka said, "The priest's pet is a human. For a price, he'll have her walk to, say, Chillwind, and mail letters. You can arrange to have her pick up mail from there as well."

"And—hypothetically speaking—how much would the priest charge for something like that?"

"A few hundred per trip, I think. No more than seven. Just a guess."

"Seven hundred gold?" Asric pulled his arm away from Rebecka's and turned to face her. "That's outrageous."

She shrugged. "Well, it would take her most of a day to walk there and back. Her time is very valuable to Gerard."

"I can imagine," Asric said. "Look, Rebecka, I appreciate the information, but I don't have that kind of money." He'd have to risk going to one of the Cartel towns and hope that it stayed neutral long enough for him to get in touch with Jadaar.

"Which is why," Rebecka re-possessed his arm, "I've worked out a sweet deal for you. You're going to trade your blood and maybe some skin samples to Gerard in exchange for Theresa time. That's a good deal for something you'll regenerate naturally, don't you think?"

"But—" Asric rubbed the headache blooming in his forehead. "Why would this Gerard want my blood?"

"Because," Rebecka said, "he can sell it to the RAS. That elf you asked about? His physiology has some unusual properties. Being able to compare your blood and skin samples to his should be very useful."

"You never told me what they're doing to him."

Rebecka shrugged. "Research. Torture. I didn't ask."

She didn't care. "You're going to handle these transactions?"

"Yes."

"So that you can take a cut."

"Of course."

Asric sighed. "Alright. How do we do this? What do you need me to do?"

Rebecka pulled a gleaming, wickedly large syringe from her pocket. "Let's go find you a pen and some nice writing paper first, and then go from there."

.

.

.

_~ To be continued ~_

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_ First post 31 August 2017; rev 2 December 2017 _


	3. Jadaar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jadaar digs into Asric's past. What he finds is disheartening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, warm thanks to **Bryn** for beta.

.

.

The Silver Covenant elves left him to his trophies, although one of them did snatch up the bottle of spring wine as they backed out of the room. Once Jadaar was certain that they weren't coming back, he carefully closed the door panel, retrieved the courier packet he'd hidden in his leggings, then sat on the bed to consider the "treasures."

He set the lock-picking tools, the courier packet, and the coins to one side. The vials, which looked as if they hadn't been opened in quite some time, he put back into the iron box.

Which left the rings and the velvet bag, which contained a necklace.

The rings were simple unjeweled bands, each of a different-colored metal. They were incised with faint geometric shapes, although the patterns on the two larger rings were worn nearly smooth from wear. All three rings were heavily tarnished both inside and out.

Curious. They weren't being worn and didn't appear to have intrinsic value. Did they have some magical property that wasn't obvious?

He put the rings aside and poured the necklace out of the bag. Chains of delicate, elongated links connected clusters of realistically-rendered leaves, which were tinted with pale green and violet and dotted with crystal dewdrops. Despite the tarnish that darkened the metal, the overall effect was very pleasing. There was a break in the chain, and the clasp looked damaged.

Jadaar placed the necklace carefully back into its protective bag. The natural assumption would be that any jewelry kept in a locked box had some value, even if only sentimental, yet something wasn't right. Why keep the box in plain sight, in a location accessible to either faction, with a door that didn't even have a lock? The box itself was hardly a deterrent. Competent thieves would break into it within seconds—and most likely discover the packet hidden under the false bottom as well, the packet that Asric supposedly had been willing to risk his life for.

Jadaar's professional intuition told him that there was a good chance that the iron box and its contents were a decoy or bait, meant to distract thieves from finding something else. But what?

He put his head in his hands. It was the same dilemma he'd had with the packet. Even after all this time, his first instinct was always to treat Asric like a suspect rather than a friend. As a friend, he should do only what Asric had asked him to do. Retrieve only the packet, and nothing more. Still… if a distraught client had asked him to retrieve valuables, would he hesitate to extend the scope of the retrieval as he saw fit if he thought that he was missing items of real value? No, he would not. Had Asric anticipated this? Had he assumed that Jadaar would bring everything, even though he had not requested as such? Would he be grateful? Or would he instead accuse Jadaar of "snooping?"

Jadaar truly had no idea, but that was the elf's fault for consistently avoiding any but the most superficial of interactions. How could Jadaar be expected to understand him, when there were so few details of substance to go on?

He sighed. It was strange how much he was already missing someone he knew so little about. Asric had been gone less than an hour, yet knowing that the choice to spend time together had been taken from them made it feel as though some vital piece of the landscape was missing. Granted, what was missing was a stubborn, invasive plant that might be considered a weed by many, but as the botany master had taught, "What is called a weed by some is cherished by others."

He nodded. It was decided. He would search the room, and no matter what he found—even if it was nothing—it would be an important lesson.

He scooped everything back into the box. He then stood by the door, and, using the edge of his hoof for precise placement, methodically stepped on the middle and both ends of each floorboard. Nothing. He then stood the bed on its end against the door and examined the floor for scrape marks, which would have suggested frequent moving of the bed to get to a hiding place underneath. There were no marks, but this didn't mean anything; Asric was slender enough to slide under the bed.

In the middle of the right-hand wall, two runs out, was a board that didn't squeak like the others. Although it didn't move when he pushed on one end with all his weight, when he knelt and rapped on it, the sound was slightly different than the surrounding boards.

He pried it up with a lockpick. In the shallow space was a small folded bag of deep blue velvet, similar to the worn one in the iron box: inside, three rings and a necklace of overlapping leaves. Oddly, this necklace also had a break in its chain, in the same spot as the first one. All four pieces were untarnished, and, even to Jadaar's untrained eye, far superior in craftsmanship to the versions in the iron box.

It was almost a metaphor for Asric himself. Out in the open, where anyone could take them, were the false items, flashy distractions so that what was truly of value could remain safely hidden.

...

After some thought, he relocked the iron box and left it as he had found it, with all its original contents intact except for the packet. He hid the packet and the second velvet bag under the robes knotted around his waist, then placed a single hair across the top of the door panel as he closed it—a useful trick learned from Asric—and went downstairs. There was still no sign of the weapon shop owner.

Outside, there were fewer clashes in the streets, but this might have been due to the Kirin Tor mage he glimpsed patrolling with two unusually large water elementals. He got a few astonished looks, but no one stopped him.

In Vamira's studio, he found a note saying that Asric had made it safely out of Dalaran, and welcoming him to stay and watch her place while she was gone visiting relatives in Thelsamar.

"Good," he said, nodding and beginning to remove his disguise. "Good." He set the courier packet and the jewelry bag on the table, hung the two robes back on their hooks, then re-braided his hair.

He felt uneasy without his chest and shoulder armor, which had been custom made for him by a leatherworker in Lower City. Still, it had gone for a good cause—and at least he still had his leg armor. He searched through Vamira's costume boxes for something to wear, but as she had nothing comparable he settled on a white shirt and a leather belt wide enough to tuck the jewelry bag out of sight.

He considered leaving the courier packet in the studio, in the same place he'd hidden Asric's daggers, but decided to tuck it inside his shirt and under his belt. Whatever it contained, it was safest with him.

Tiffany Carter was alone in the Dalaran jeweler's shop.

"Welcome,"she said as Jadaar entered. "What can I do for you?"

"I wonder if you would be willing to close the shop for a brief time?" he asked. "I would like to consult you on an issue of some sensitivity."

She looked surprised, then nodded, moving from behind the counter to lock the door and pull down a CLOSED shade. "Normally I wouldn't, but business has been… a little slow this morning."

Jadaar followed her behind the counter and into the back room, slipping the jewelry bag from under his belt. "I have some objects," he said. "Retrieved from… the scene of an attempted robbery. Anything you can tell me about them might be useful in identifying the owner. Or the would-be thieves."

Tiffany nodded, directing two lamps onto a small work area and then pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves. "Let's see what you have."

Jadaar handed her the rings first, and watched as she first carefully wiped each with a clean cloth, weighed them on a small scale, then studied them with a magnifying lens.

"These were made by a hobbyist," she said after examining each ring.

"How can you tell?"

"The execution isn't professional. The symmetry is off, the incising is inconsistent…" She went from ring to ring. "The sort of work you see from someone just beginning in the craft. Lots of determination, not much skill. Although, if the same person made all three, they were a fast learner."

"Oh?"

"The larger rings turned out better than the small one."

"I see. What about this?" He handed her the necklace.

"Oh, my." She took it reverently and set it down on the table, then fit a loupe into her eye and bent low over it. "Beautiful. The delicacy of the chain, the realism of the metalwork, the invisible settings for the cabochons." She lifted it carefully and studied the back. "Truly superb. I'm surprised it's not signed. Do you want the maker identified? I can put you in touch with an expert."

"I'm more concerned with trying to track down the owner."

"Pieces like this are usually special commissions, one-of-a-kind. Kept in the same family for generations," she said. "Knowing who made it might help you track down who it belongs to."

"A good point. The chain—would it be difficult to repair?" This was overstepping his bounds, perhaps, but he suddenly wanted to see Asric's face once he saw that what had been broken was now restored.

"Honestly? I'm not sure," Tiffany said. "If it was just the break in the chain, I might be willing to attempt it, but the clasp is damaged as well. Recreating the missing piece is something I'd only entrust to a conservator knowledgeable about high elven jewelcrafting."

"So it's not blood elf jewelry?"

"Well, no. Blood elves didn't exist until after the Third War, and it's older than that."

Jadaar gathered from her surprised tone that his grasp of Azerothian history was shakier than he'd supposed. He should remedy his ignorance, in order to put Asric's background in perspective. "How old is it?"

"Hard to say. The high elves used the same designs and techniques for thousands of years." She picked up one of the rings, and held it close to her loupe. "Did the thieves get the copies?"

Jadaar was surprised that she knew of the copies. "Pardon?"

She held the ring under the magnifier lens so that Jadaar could see it. "That white residue in the grooves? Probably from a plaster cast."

"I hadn't noticed that."

"Easy to miss if you're not used to looking for it," she said, putting the ring down and bending close to scrutinize the necklace chain, "but I always look for it. Plenty of our customers ask for replicas to guard against theft. The true owner of a piece generally never needs to have it done more than once. When we get a request to copy a piece that already has plaster residue, it's usually because the piece is stolen."

"Why would thieves make a copy?" he asked, then understood. "Ah, I see. If there's a reward, thieves will use the fake to collect it, then sell the original later."

"You got it." She picked up a long slender pair of tweezers and held up the end of the break in the chain. "But here's an interesting detail. Whoever owned this had the damage copied as well. A weird thing to do."

"Yes," Jadaar said. "It is." He nodded. "Thank you, you've provided much valuable information for my investigation."

"Happy to help."

...

After receiving Tiffany's solemn promise to report anyone asking about their conversation, Jadaar went back to Asric's room over the weapon shop. He noted that the hair atop the door was still in place, which meant that no one had entered the room during his brief visit to the jeweler's shop. He hadn't expected any disturbance since he doubted anyone was following him or watching Asric's room, but it only took a few minutes to address the possibility completely by staying long enough (and making appropriate noises) for anyone who might be listening to assume that he had put the jewelry back into the iron box.

Having made certain that Asric's ruse was intact, Jadaar went back to Vamira's to plan his investigation, and finish off the remainder of the last night's dinner before it spoiled.

The best place to keep the originals and Asric's documents safe was a bank. Dalaran's bank wasn't stable at the moment, but Stormwind's was—and their library, if it lived up to its reputation, would be very useful. High elves had associated with the Alliance for much longer than blood elves had belonged to the Horde; Stormwind should have plenty of historical documents and information about elven history. Granted, it would have been more convenient if he could have approached the high elves in Dalaran with his questions, but with the current tense atmosphere it wasn't an opportune time for an in-depth discussion.

The talbuk stew was almost as good cold as it had been hot. The raw vegetable slices were a bit shriveled, but still edible, which was more than he could say for the extremely rare lynx steak that Vamira had provided for Asric. After wrapping it and a bowl of pickled eggs for disposal, he pinched off a small piece of goldencake. Sticky with honey, it was as sweet on his lips as kisses.

He licked the crumbs from his fingers thoughtfully. Kisses… How long had it been since he'd been interested in such things? Two hundred years? Three hundred? Had it been so long since he'd buried Lila and Faasar?

He turned in the chair and contemplated the red robe for several minutes before beginning his journey.

...

Jadaar looked up as the librarian set another pile of books on the table. "Thank you."

The human, who looked weary, put his hand on a stack that Jadaar had set to one side. "And you're finished with these?"

"Yes." He was about to give up trying to identify the artist or the family associated with the necklace. Unlike humans, the high elves did not seem to have been interested in having their portraits painted—at least not by human painters whose art was reproduced in the books of Stormwind's Royal Library. Jadaar supposed he might have found something useful if he had access to jewelcrafting transactions, but such records would have been kept by elves, and therefore most likely had been destroyed during the Third War. Even if the records had survived, with Silvermoon now a blood elf territory the information was inaccessible.

Though truly, did it matter who the necklace belonged to? Whether an heirloom of the family that Asric had never mentioned—he had never been forthcoming about his past—or simply something the elf had found after the invasion amid rubble and corpses, the true owner was likely dead. Knowing who they were would not bring them back. Then too, there was no way he could bring up the name without making Asric more secretive, more armored, more determined to hide behind his mask of superficiality.

At least he had had slightly more success with his other quest. Knowing how much millennia of persecution and flight had shaped the Draenic character, he assumed that learning more about blood elf history would help him understand Asric.

It did.

Such a disheartening history! Driven from their ancestral home for use of dangerous magic, they shut themselves away inside shining, impenetrable walls. When at last they were forced to ask for help against troll invaders, they reluctantly shared their arcane knowledge without any thought of how that knowledge would be used by those they taught. Centuries later, nearly exterminated by the Scourge invasion—a destruction that was as sudden as it was unforeseen—the sickness that followed the loss of their Sunwell divided the survivors. Those who resisted the sickness considered themselves the 'true' high elves, and despised their blood elf brethren. When the blood elves, treated as expendable by their human allies, searched for a cure in Outland, internal strife divided them yet again.

In short, this was a people who could not trust their world, their allies, their leaders, or even each other.

The librarian leaned over to peer at the book Jadaar had been reading. _"Saga of the Sin'dorei._ Researching the Sunreavers?"

"Nothing so recent," Jadaar said. "The Scourge invasion of Quel'Thalas. _"_

The human shook his head. "All that, just to resurrect a single necromancer."

"It is difficult for me to understand why such a loss of life was required to accomplish the task," Jadaar said. "Surely there were other sources of power they could have drawn on? Or were they targeting the elves?"

"Who knows?" The librarian shrugged. "Arthas sure did our work for us."

"Work?" Jadaar was puzzled for a moment, then he understood. "The elves were Alliance citizens at the time."

The librarian gave him an odd look. "Yes, of course." He tidied the stack. "It always seemed to me that the Scourge just chose what was closest to Lordaeron."

Jadaar had come to the same appalling conclusion. Draenei knew precisely why they were being hunted by the Legion. The knowledge was part of what defined them. It gave their hardship meaning. If the elves had died simply because they were in the way of an objective… that was far worse than being the object of a vendetta. If you knew your enemies, knew that they were coming for you, you could prepare, but if your core perception of the world was that you could be struck down at any time by a random, unpredictable event, then of course you would live only in the moment. Losing so much, so quickly, would make you reluctant to plan for the future, would make you wary of taking comfort or security from anything—or anyone—that promised permanence, because you assumed that inevitably your solace would be taken away by a caprice of fate.

"Are you writing a book?" the librarian asked.

"No," Jadaar said, "Just trying to understand."

The librarian hefted the stack of books and walked away.

It did not matter to Jadaar if Asric was a blood elf of the Horde instead of a high elf of the Alliance: where once he had been a nuisance, now he was essential.

The task now would be to convince the brat of this.

...

The consensus in Dalaran was that the ban on the Horde was going to be permanent. If that was the case Jadaar was only going to stay until he heard from Asric.

He hoped it would be soon, as he found enforced idleness hard to bear. Having spent much of his life since leaving Argus in flight from the Legion, the best thing about each planetfall had been the need for work. Fishing, tilling, and housebuilding had always been such a welcome respite from recirculated air and hydroponic food and hours of the same conversations over and over in the _eretudos._

After cashing out his stipend, he packed up what few possessions he had in his room at the Silver Enclave and brought them to Vamira's. No point in taking a space that someone else could use. He also decided to retrieve the iron box from Asric's room above the weapon shop. No reason to leave the box there, as obviously it was now public knowledge that Asric, like the other blood elves in Dalaran, would not be returning.

The weapon shop proprietors stood nervously behind their newly-repaired display cases. The bloodstains on the floor had been scrubbed away. "Can we help you?" they asked when he entered.

"May I go upstairs?" he asked.

"Of course!" they said, a shade too brightly.

The hair was still atop the door.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" they asked when he came downstairs.

The box, wrapped in rags, was tucked nearly out of sight under his arm. "More or less," he said, setting a gold coin on the counter with a decisive click. "Many thanks."

He checked in with Tiffany, but no one had come in asking about the jewelry. Almost disappointing, that Asric's careful feint had been for nothing. Jadaar hoped he'd get the story someday.

He climbed the stairs to Vamira's studio and sat watching the sunlight move across the floor. Once the light had dimmed, he shook himself out of his reverie and went downstairs through the quiet streets to the entrance that led down to the Dalaran underbelly and the Cantrips and Crows.

The cantina was deserted. The yellow lamplight that had always cast a sly, cheerful glow now seemed melancholy when reflecting off clean, battered tables.

Jadaar pulled out a chair and sat. So many memories. His friendship with Asric had first taken root here in the days following their expulsion from Shattrath. They had spent hours here, drinking watery beer and thinking of creative ways to insult each other.

"Jadaar!" it was Ajay, the bartender and innkeeper. "Lucky you came by! I got something I think is meant for you." He took an envelope from his vest pocket.

The envelope was addressed simply _One-eyed J, Cantrips and Crows, Dalaran._

"How did you come by this?" Jadaar asked.

"Inside a letter addressed to me," Ajay said. He went back to the counter and rummaged under it for a moment, then brought over an envelope, grimy from handling and with several Stormwind-issued postal stamps. "They must not have had an address for you."

The handwriting on both envelopes looked somewhat like Asric's. "Thank you," Jadaar said, then opened his envelope.

 

 

> _**J-** _
> 
> _**See you at the Faire.** _
> 
> _**A-** _

His first emotion was disappointment—this was all the elf had to say to him?—but immediately he chided himself. Anyone intercepting it would have no idea it was from someone of the Horde to someone of the Alliance, and sending it to Ajay, a neutral party who often received messages for transient Underbelly denizens, was the best way to ensure it got to Jadaar.

The Faire was several days away, but Jadaar couldn't stand the idea of sitting around in Dalaran. After retrieving Asric's daggers and packing a few other essentials, he went to Goldshire, rented a room, and then spent his time either reading badly-written novels by the fire or watching the Darkmoon roustabouts set up the tents and the framework for the portal.

Two days before the Faire was scheduled to open, he was sitting near the fire when a stranger in a bright blue hooded robe flopped down in the chair next to him.

Jadaar, who had read everything in the inn's meager library, and had graduated to staring at the flames in the fireplace, didn't pay them much attention at first, but when the stranger gave a prolonged, exaggerated yawn, Jadaar glanced over.

The brown-eyed human wore oversized scholar's eyeglasses that flashed in the firelight, but he also had a small patch of reddish beard just below his lower lip. As Jadaar watched, he undid the top two clasps of his robe, revealing a very familiar leather-and-mail chestpiece. "I feel we have something to discuss upstairs," he said.

"I knew you'd be here early," Asric said once Jadaar had closed the door to his room. He pushed back his hood and took off Vamira's leather cap.

"Did you?" Jadaar reached out, holding the elf's limp ears upright and massaging them slightly with his thumbs, assuming that this would help them recover their natural state.

"Huh… yeah." Asric grasped his forearms. "You know, it's polite to ask permission before doing that," he gasped.

Jadaar let go. "I simply wished to help."

"It's… it's alright," Asric said, He took off his glasses, revealing his normal fel-green eyes and extravagant elven eyebrows. "It's just… they're sensitive. And very… sensitive."

"Those glasses are interesting," Jadaar said. "Magical concealment?"

Asric nodded. "I helped a friend in Undercity gather some, ah, research materials, and she hooked me up with her thaumaturge." He pulled off the blue robe. "I'm sorry, but I had to stash your armor in a snowbank for a few days, and I don't think it took it too well. I hope it still fits; it feels like it shrank."

Jadaar stepped close, and felt the edges of the leather. "Yes, it's hard, but if I work some oil into it, it'll become flexible again." As he helped undo the buckles and lift the cuirass over Asric's head he noted that the elf's leggings were thin, tight, and in no way concealing. All that arousal, just from having his ears touched?

Asric was breathless, but also grinning like a fool. "Is that all? Rub some oil into it?"

"We shall see," Jadaar said. "As it happens, I believe that there is some oil in this very room that could be useful."

...

_Some time later..._

"How did you know to… when did you learn to do all that?"

"What, just now?" Jadaar asked. "Do you think my people spent hundreds of years in close quarters on our dimensional ships playing cards?" He traced the edge of Asric's ear. "After 20,000 years even an old windbag may pick up a few tricks."

"I didn't think you were interested in sex."

"I have never needed physical intimacy as much as some," he said. "However, I do enjoy using my knowledge to bring pleasure."

"That's because you are a showoff," Asric said.

"Perhaps." Jadaar settled his arm more comfortably across Asric's back. The elf was shorter and less broad than a draenei, which meant that he fit very comfortably against Jadaar's side. "So what is this rule?"

Asric pretended to be very interested in the scars on Jadaar's chest and belly. "Rule?"

"Yes, you very clearly said, 'Fuck Redmourn's rule!' I am certain of it."

"I was saying 'fuck Redmourn'. "

"Nonsense. I was already doing so, and hardly needed encouragement."

"No, you certainly didn't." Asric exhaled loudly, and let the silence stretch out for minutes before he said said, "It says to never sleep with anyone more than once."

Ah, so there it was—or part of it at least. "Why?"

"I didn't say it was a _good_ rule."

"What happens if you break it?"

Asric slid his hand down and began to give unambiguous encouragement. "Let's find out."

Sweeter even than honey.

.

.

.

_~ To be continued ~_

_._

_._

_ first post 12 September 2017; revised 2 December 2017 _


	4. Asric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The windbag and the brat meet up in Pandaria, and begin to figure out where to go from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heartfelt thanks to **Bryn** for beta.

.

.

The kites were one of the things he liked best about Pandaria. He supposed that they were enchanted in some way—to be able, after only one good shove from the kite-master, to find uplifting currents and glide all the way to their destination—but that's not what appealed to him. It was instead the sense of abandon and surrender they encouraged. Unlike windriders and bats—which you could steer off-route if you had a firm enough hand—a kite went where it was aimed and that was that. You couldn't even throw your weight to make it bank, as he knew first-hand, but he found that liberating. Once you accepted that you had no control, you could give yourself over to the ride, let the wind comb your hair and sneak up under your clothes… Asric had been accused by various people of sexualizing far too many things, but with kite-rides, he felt, it was an entirely justified perspective.

As he descended toward Halfhill, he saw that there was a fracas at the flight point. An enormous orc and an almost equally enormous human were having a drunken shoving match. It looked as if it had been going on for a while, as the human's fancy jacket was missing buttons and a sleeve, and the orc was missing a bracer and a boot.

"In a hat!" the orc said as Asric landed, stabbing with his forefinger at the human's bare chest. "A HAT!"

The human's reply was too slurred to understand. He leaned forward and grabbed the orc's shoulder. They swayed in unison for a second, then both lost their balance and fell over the hill and out of sight.

Asric and the kite-master peered over the edge. Impressively loud snores were coming from the tangle of tan and green limbs.

"Passed out," the kite-master said. "They'll be fine. Grass down there is thick and very soft."

Asric smiled. Nice to see that not everyone was fighting.

...

The kite skimmed south over Krasarang and out over the Nayeli lagoon toward Angler's Wharf. As Asric got closer he saw a smear of blue on the roof of the inn.

Was it—Jadaar?

Sunbathing?

On a roof?

Asric shook his head, then crouched as the kite swooped for its landing.

"You can go up there if you want," the innkeeper Haito said, pointing at a ladder propped against the side of the inn. "But if you break the roof, you will be repairing it."

"Don't worry, I'll be careful." Asric climbed and saw that, yes, Jadaar was sleeping, on the roof, face down, nude. If not the for eyepatch and a particularly nasty scar he recognized, he'd have doubted that it was really Jadaar. He had been so different in Goldshire, playful, gentler... He had even smiled. More than once. It was… well, it wasn't scary. It was weird. Asric supposed he was partly the cause of the change, and he wasn't sure it was altogether a good thing. For one, the old Jadaar's disdainful glares had been so enjoyably abrasive. Like striking a match on a rough surface, and with much the same effect.

He moved carefully across the roof until he was blocking the sunlight, then pulled a straw from the thatch and poked Jadaar in the shoulder.

Jadaar grumbled, turned his head and squinted, then pushed himself up. The roof had imprinted into his skin, making him look as if his torso and limbs were tightly wrapped with invisible threads — except for a strip across his crotch, where he had been lying on his clothes. "Finally. I had begun to wonder." Showing impressive balance on the slanted surface, he got dressed. "I have some things for you in the inn," he said. "We can get them now, or I can come back for them later."

"Presents?"

Jadaar snorted. "Don't get too excited."

A Pandaren head poked up over the edge of the roof. "Oh," she giggled, "You're awake. I can take you over any time."

"Thank you, Linnshi."

As she went down the ladder, Asric asked, "Take you where?"

Jadaar pointed across the water to the small formation that rose out of the sea west of the village. It looked like a huge stone chair that a giant might sit in to soak his feet in the water. The south side, the seat of the chair, was a grassy plateau with a Pandaren fisherman's hut, elevated on stilts near the cliff edge closest to the village. The chair back, a stone spire northwest of the plateau, was capped with its own tiny hut, perched improbably high.

"I rented the lower hut for the next two weeks," Jadaar said.

What Asric heard was _I mention renting for only two weeks because I know that you, Asric, flee from anything with even a faint aroma of permanence._ Well, sure, it was true, but having it called out made him want to prove otherwise! "Just for you?"

Jadaar's mood soured. "For both of us, if you wish."

"Sure," Asric muttered as he followed Jadaar down the ladder. So much for a smooth beginning. It was so much easier when all they did was insult each other.

Jadaar entered the inn. "I'll take that box now," he said. "And please tell Linnshi we're ready to go over whenever she has a moment to take us."

The innkeeper handed a very familiar iron box to Jadaar. "I'll tell her to get the boat ready," he said, then went outside.

Jadaar handed the box to Asric. He was back to his usual scowl.

"Thank for taking care of it," Asric said. It sounded awkward. "Look, Jadaar—"

"There is no need to thank me," he said, folding his arms.

Asric had seen this tell many times; it meant that Jadaar was armoring himself behind a wall of defensive stubbornness. "Look, I didn't mean to…" He set the box on the counter of the inn. "This is new territory for me."

Jadaar gave him a sour look. "Territory? Oh yes, your rule."

Asric sighed, exasperated. "You're not making it easy for me to change."

"It's my fault?"

"No, but, just… it takes time."

Jadaar gestured. "Open the box."

Asric reached inside his shirt and pulled out the key he was wearing around his neck. When he unlocked the box and opened it, he was surprised to see it filled with shiny red fabric. "What is this?" It was a robe, red silk with a subtle embroidery of gold thread. Under the robe were the other items he'd had in the box—the lockpicks, the vials, the coins, the courier pouch—as well as both blue velvet jewelry bags.

He held up the robe. "Nice. Yours?"

Jadaar shot him a look that was endearing in its gruff defensiveness. "It was at Vamira's. I thought it might suit you."

Asric pulled the string with the key over his head, and held it out.

Jadaar, looking surprised, took it.

Asric took off his shirt, then put on the robe. "I do like it," he said, smoothing his hand along the sleeve. "Thank you."

Jadaar nodded. His expression had softened a little. "Good."

...

Linnshi had loaded a basket of provisions into the boat, and paddled them to the far side of the tiny island. The weathered remains of a smashed boat were scattered across a narrow strip of white sand beach. Asric didn't see any way up to the hut other than to scramble up a spill of rocky scree.

"I offered to construct stairs," Jadaar said.

"In exchange for rent?" From Jadaar's expression, the answer was no: it probably hadn't even occurred to him to ask. His altruism was sweet, but it was clear that Asric would need to assert control over all business transactions. "Are stairs are a good idea?" he asked. "Once they're there, then anyone can drop in. Pirates, Silver Covenant vigilantes, relatives, ex-lovers..."

Linnshi laughed as she poled the raft away from shore. "The birds will be more of a problem for you."

Jadaar, the surefooted showoff, started climbing one handed while balancing the basket on one shoulder. Asric followed, and after some scrabbling and cursing reached the top as well.

He saw what she meant. The grassy field in front of the hut was home to a flock of ill-tempered long-beaked cranes, who charged at them as soon as they stepped away from the cliff edge.

They hurried up the wooden steps and into the hut.

It wasn't very impressive. There was a table in one corner with a single clay mug and a box of assorted iron spikes and hooks. Woodworking and fishing equipment hung on the walls. A ladder led up to a wide ledge that ran across the back of the hut. A net, stretched across part of the open space above their heads, was a storage area for assorted buoys.

"It's rough, but it will do," Jadaar said.

Asric looked around. "What are we supposed to sit on? Barrels?"

"Why not?" Jadaar had taken the lid off the basket. Inside, a Pandaren mattress, disappointingly thin, took half the space. The rest was various hard rolls and cheeses, a few pieces of unripe fruit, two plates, two mugs, some utensils, and, happily, a small keg of beer.

Jadaar held out the mattress. "Put this upstairs."

"Upstairs? You mean upladder?" Asric said.

"Yes."

He climbed. The ledge, which had a raised lip, was filled with a layer of dried greenish-gray muck. "Look out down below," he said to Jadaar, "I'm going to brush this whatever this is off first."

"No, leave it," Jadaar said. "It must be dried moss or seaweed. For cushioning."

"For sleeping?"

"In general."

Asric unfolded the mattress, then looked down at Jadaar. He had already cleared off the table, dragged two barrels over as seating, and was setting out the food. Very domestic. "You should come up and make sure I did this right."

"I'm sure you—" Jadaar started to say, then turned around and looked up at him. "Ah." He chuckled, or perhaps growled, but either way it was a sound that even bruised ears could appreciate. "A third time, then?"

Yup, they were done with Redmourn's Rule.

...

The dried whatever made the mattress surprisingly comfortable, although still appealingly firm. Unfortunately, the ledge was narrow, and the roof strongly angled. Spooning was the only option that didn't cause either claustrophobia or fear of falling.

"I think we need to get a bed downstairs," he said. "There's not much room to move up here." He realized after he spoke that what he'd said had Implications.

"I could build one," Jadaar said. "The stairs will not require that much lumber. Where would the table go?"

Had Jadaar missed the implications, or chosen to ignore them? Asric wasn't sure; once, he would have been. He leaned forward enough to peer over the edge of the ledge. "Do we need it? We can eat up here. Store the food here too. That'll keep the cranes from going after it." Did cranes eat cheese? He had no idea. Probably; everything was always hungry.

"I don't think there is any danger that they will enter the hut," Jadaar said. "You made enough noise that they will be terrified for weeks."

"Don't blame all of that on me," Asric said. He knew that this was the same Jadaar he'd always known, and yet it seemed like someone entirely new. Someone who joked and smiled and gave thoughtful _gifts._ It was strange and slightly frightening and perhaps also wonderful.

...

After they woke from their nap, Jadaar was unexpectedly enthusiastic about building the stairs. He gathered up all the various saws and hammers hanging on the walls, and took the bucket of iron spikes.

"I have no idea how to build," Asric said, making sure to put the red robe on as he followed him out of the hut.

"Not a problem," Jadaar said. "I will build. You can talk."

"That, I know how to do."

Jadaar gave a snort that clearly meant, Of course you do.

Asric noticed that the cranes were keeping a wary distance, and so held out the sides of the robe until they flapped in the wind. Most of the cranes scattered; the boldest made rude cackles as Asric slid down the gravel incline and struggled to keep his balance.

On the beach, Jadaar took a long metal pry bar and began to disassemble what was left of the ship's hull.

Asric didn't see the point of this. "Building steps seems like a lot of work. Why not just drag the wreckage so that we can walk up and down on it?"

"That would be the lazy way," Jadaar said. He was stacking each board he removed into one of four neat stacks. "Also, it would be too steep to walk on. And very slippery in the rain."

Huh. He knew what he was doing, it seemed. "Why four piles?"

"Short warped boards can be used for the steps," Jadaar said, "long warped ones for runners and struts. Anything square and true I am setting aside for the bed."

"Oh." He watched for a while. "Why warped for the steps?"

"Perfectly flat boards will pool the rain," Jadaar said. "The wood will rot faster. If they're bowed this way—" he demonstrated with his hand, making a shallow, palm-side down dome—"the rain will run off."

"I see." Asric took the red robe off and draped it over a bush. "I don't want it to get wet," he told Jadaar as he sat on the sand.

He watched for a while. It was funny. Elves looked the same whether moving or standing still, but draenei, somehow... when they were moving they transformed from hulking slabs of meat to powerful, graceful beasts. Jadaar was currently putting his entire weight into prying up the stump of the broken mast from the keel, and the effort was making muscles normally unseen bulge and strain against his skin—skin that was already glistening with sweat under the bright sun.

Asric shifted and adjusted himself. The windbag was going to be utterly insufferable if he ever realized how sexy he was. "I knew you'd snoop around until you found the second bag."

"You expected me to?" Jadaar asked, grunting as the stump finally began to give way.

"Of course! I was counting on it." Which was a lie. He'd been too panicked at the time to do the reasonable thing, which would have been to say, _Bring the iron box and the bag hidden under the floorboard._ But no, he hadn't done the reasonable thing, had he, and why? Because he had been worried that Jadaar would ask why there were two bags, and apparently to avoid answering that question he had been willing to risk losing his most precious possessions.

"That was foolish," Jadaar said, pulling nails from the stump. "What if I had taken you literally, and retrieved only the packet?"

And he'd been dead wrong. Jadaar hadn't even opened the courier packet, let alone asked why there were two sets of jewelry. He hadn't treated him as a suspect, but as a friend. Or, at the very least, a valued client. He must have been curious, but he had respected Asric's privacy. "But you didn't, and I'm very very grateful that you went ahead and did what you did." It felt strange, almost dangerous, to say something so truthful, but if Jadaar was going to drop the gruff disinterested act and suddenly woo him, well, he had to step up his game and match that, if for no other reason than to see where it would go.

Jadaar stopped working and turned to him, his face clouded with disbelief.

It stung, but Asric supposed that he'd given him plenty of proof that he was incapable of being sincere. That should probably change: obviously now wasn't the right time to tell him that the packet mostly contained identification papers for the accounts that he had set up over the years to hide his earnings. "If I tell you all my stories now, there won't be anything left for later."

"That is true." Jadaar turned back to his hammering. "Though if you plan to space your stories out, keep in mind that draenei are extremely long lived. Adjust your doling accordingly." He sounded entirely serious, but Asric had learned that sometimes this meant that he was telling a joke.

"Oh, I have plenty of stories," Asric said. "Which one do you want to hear this year?"

Jadaar chuckled. "Your choice."

Asric folded his arms. "What are you most curious about?"

"The necklace," Jadaar said. "The jeweler in Dalaran said that it was very valuable, and that an expert would be needed to fix it. Did it belong to your family?"

"You think I stole it?"

"I did not say so."

"It was my mother's."

Jadaar put down the hammer, turned, and sat, giving Asric his full attention.

Well, alright, they were doing this. "She was the only daughter of an ancient, noble family," Asric began. "The kind that thinks that children are just assets for strategic marriages. For her coming of age celebration, her parents commissioned a necklace, and she convinced them to let her watch it being made. During the time it took to craft the necklace, she fell in love and became pregnant. And before you ask, no, I have no idea who my father was. Of course I wondered, especially once I got old enough to notice how often people pointed out that my family was incomplete." He swallowed down the unexpected bitterness.

"Asric, there is no need to tell such a personal story if it brings painful memories."

It was a considerate thing to say, Asric knew that, but this wasn't just telling a story to Jadaar; it was telling a story he'd never spoken aloud before to anyone. "She loved me enough for three parents, but never talked about her life before I was born. I pieced it together after she died, when I found unsent letters she'd written, and letters she'd received. The mother I'd known as Celia Redmourn had been born Faenna Desgarux."

"She changed her name?"

"She was forced to. By her family."

Jadaar clasped his hands and leaned forward, but said nothing.

"Her parents were enraged when she refused to name the father. No noble house would marry their heir to a wife who came with a bastard of unknown lineage! In the end they cast her out, allowing her to take only the clothes she was wearing and the necklace. They said that, like her, the necklace would always be a reminder of the family's shame. As a last insult, they offered to send her a small monthly stipend on the condition that she change her appearance and name, and never admit to anyone that she had been born a Desgarux."

Jadaar scowled. "Such cruel and unfeeling persons do not deserve the name of 'parent.' Did no one care that she had disappeared?"

"The story was that Faenna had taken her own life after being seduced by an assistant in the jewelcrafting shop," Asric said, "though the more romantically-inclined claimed that she and her lover had eloped."

"Perhaps your father was made to disappear as well."

"No, I think he must have been one of the shop's wealthy clients. Too cowardly to come forward." Asric shook his head, remembering how he'd briefly clung to the ridiculous fantasy that his father was someone from the royal family. How young and stupid and desperate he'd been back then.

Jadaar looked puzzled. "What is it?" Asric asked.

"It is just—I saw the rings. All three rings, equally worn."

"We made them when I was still a child. Still in school. One for me, two for her."

"She wore both rings to symbolize that she was both mother and father to you?" Jadaar asked. "Or did she hold hope that he would step forward some day?"

Asric was suddenly irritated by this theorizing. Jadaar hadn't known Celia; how could he possibly guess what she thought, why she did things? "Maybe. I don't know. He never did. Doesn't matter now, since he's probably dead. They both are." He was tired of the conversation, of Jadaar's attentiveness. He waved his hand. "Break's over. Get back to work."

Jadaar didn't take offense; he simply stood and began sorting through the short boards, setting aside a dozen of the shortest before hammering the remainder into a sawhorse. He then took the remaining boards, and, using the shortest as a ruler, began to score other boards with a sharp stone.

"Who do you think it was?" Asric asked.

Jadaar shrugged. "Without seeing the letters, it's pointless to speculate."

"But you speculated about what the rings meant to my mother!"

"Some aspects of a situation can be understood without evidence."

What did he mean, evidence? "Is that what this is? I tell you something personal, extremely personal, about my life, things I've never told anyone before, not ever, and you see a case?"

"No. But I see how much the uncertainty about your parentage distresses you, so I am trying to find a way to help."

"I am not upset!"

Jadaar tilted his head, then turned back to his boards. "My mistake."

"Jadaar!" Asric said. "I killed her."

Jadaar set down the stone, walked to him, and embraced him in an implacable hug.

Asric was going to explode. Why didn't Jadaar hit him, or call him a brat and throw him in the sea? "Stop it! Didn't you—didn't you hear what I said?"

Jadaar didn't let go. "Yes, I heard."

"So what are you going to do about it?" Asric demanded, and it was horrible, the silence, the forgiveness and acceptance, it was unbearable, but he couldn't stop  himself from sinking into it and letting go.

...

It wasn't until the landscape turned red from the setting sun that he realized how long they had been sitting on the sand. At some point he had wound up sitting in Jadaar's lap, being cradled like a baby while Jadaar rocked back and forth ever so slightly, and though part of him was mortified, he mostly felt secure and cleansed and new and utterly comforted.

"I was on assignment," Asric said, finally, whispering because his throat was raw. "She wrote telling me that her parents had asked her to visit, that all was forgiven. Not long afterwards the rumors about a plague in Lordaeron started. I sent letter after letter to her but got no reply, so I abandoned my assignment and headed for home." They'd never discussed the invasion, even while they were at the Tournament. "I can't even begin to describe what I found."

"No need for description," Jadaar said quietly. "I have read the histories."

Asric barely heard him. "We had never been able to afford Silvermoon, so we had a little house outside the city. In Eversong. There were birds, and a creek, and a peach tree. We loved it there." Asric wiped his face. "But then… everything was dead. And then this thing came out of the house. Wearing her dress, and her necklace, and I, I cut its head off before I noticed that it was wearing her rings." He clenched his jaw; he was tired of crying. "And I should have been there. If I had been there to protect her…"

Jadaar tightened his grip very slightly. "No. You would have died as well. There would only be blame if you had knowingly, willingly, abandoned her to her fate. You did not. There is no blame."

"You have no idea of the things she did," Asric said, "what she let people do to her, simply to put food on our table."

"Save that story for another time," Jadaar said. "You are not finished with this one."

"What do you mean?"

"You have not told me why you had the necklace copied."

"Oh, that." Asric took a deep breath. "As it turned out, my grandparents weren't as interested in having their daughter back as they were in getting their necklace back. Symbol of the family stain or not, they wanted her to bring it to them. She didn't. I figured that if they ever asked for it, or tried to steal it, I would let them have a worthless replica."

"Why copy the rings?" Jadaar asked. "It doesn't sound as though they wouldn't have been interested in those."

"Props are important when setting up a con," Asric said. "If they had noticed the rings, knew she wore them, having them in the bag as well was better stage dressing. Made it more believable. Seeing just the necklace might have made them suspicious." Something Jadaar had said earlier just struck him. "Wait, since when have you been reading about elf history?"

"Your people feel they cannot trust or rely on anyone," Jadaar said. "Not their world, not their allies, not even their leaders."

It was an excellent insight, but then, Jadaar had always been the better investigator. "Don't forget family and friends. Almost every elf I've known has been let down or even betrayed by a friend or family member."

Jadaar inhaled noisily, as if preparing to make An Announcement, but instead said, "I am not an elf."

How could Jadaar hold him for so long? His arms must be incredibly tired. "I've noticed."

"I am also not so easy to chase away."

Or strong. "I noticed that too."

And still they sat, listening to the soft _shush_ of water lapping at the sand while the reds of sunset shifted into the blues of dusk.

"No matter what we plan, or dream, or hope," Jadaar said at last, "sometimes we can feel as though we are leaves in the wind, unable to control our fate. It is a painful thing to comprehend."

"Everything is pointless."

"No, we have choices. We can numb ourselves with frivolity, or find the strength to endure the truth." He stroked Asric's hair comfortingly. "Or even share our despairs and fears with one another."

Tears threatened to well up again, but this time they felt like good tears. "Just like a windbag to give such a long speech," he whispered.

"Just like a brat," Jadaar said quietly, "to not appreciate it."

.

.

* * *

Epilogue

* * *

.

.

The sound of thunder and rain pelting on the roof woke him. It was dark; he had the bed all to himself.

A flash of lightning illuminated Jadaar, sitting in the doorway, looking out to sea. He turned and patted the floor next to him. "Join me," he said. "Enjoy the view."

And so Asric did.

.

.

.

_~ The [happy] End[ing] ~_

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_ first post 17 September 2017; revised 2 December 2017 _

**Author's Note:**

>  **Mipeltaja** had expressed interest more than once in exploring how the Purge of Dalaran might have affected our favorite odd couple, so when the energy and time was finally right to spin a tale for it, I was all in. ~ This story, which incorporates a number of requests and mutual headcanons, was a joy to write. 
> 
> Grateful thanks once again to **Bryn** for word-herding and beta polishing, and to Mipe for being an awesome friend.
> 
> ETA: Apologies for teasing a T/K subplot. I had one mapped out (and did first drafts of scenes for it (Jadaar tracking down Thassarian in chapter 3, and Asric delivering a message to Koltira in chapter 4), but ultimately it clashed too much in tone with the A/J material, and diluted the focus.


End file.
